


Gallica

by ishandahalf



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Businessmen, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Future Fic, Gardens & Gardening, Humor, Husbands, M/M, Patrick Brewer is a Troll, Post-Season/Series 06, Rose Apothecary (Schitt's Creek)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:02:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25829368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishandahalf/pseuds/ishandahalf
Summary: David stumbles across an idea for a line of Rose Apothecary tie-in products that is too perfectly on-brand to pass up.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 21
Kudos: 72





	Gallica

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, hello you! So, full disclosure – it's been years since I've written a fic. But it’s also coming up on the one year anniversary of my having started to watch Schitt’s Creek – and damn did I ever fall in love with the show generally, as a whole, but specifically with these two idiots. That prompted me to dive back into devouring fanfic with gusto and I was doing pretty well in fending off the plot bunnies, but... well, an internet deep dive into something seemingly random got them all riled up, and here we are. I thought this might be a nice anniversary present to both myself and the world – I mean, it’s no giant cookie, but hopefully you’ll all enjoy this. 😊

@}-,-’-. ~ .-,-’-{@

“Oh my god!”

David’s loud cry broke through the mid-afternoon calm (or ‘eerie quiet’, some would argue) of the store. The lone customer in the corner startled, but luckily didn’t drop the bottle of body milk they were holding.

Patrick, who by now was well-versed in all of David’s different intonations of “Oh my god”, calmly glanced up from where he was replenishing their supply of lotions. This wasn’t a disgusted “Oh my _GOD_ ”, like he heard whenever Roland would take off his left shoe and sock and try to sample a new batch of foot cream right on the floor of the store, or a shocked “Oh. My. God!” like he heard on practically every FaceTime call between Alexis and David when she would regale him with hot goss on the latest celebrity she spotted in New York, or even an indignant “Oh my _goddddd_ ” like he heard whenever David got outbid on whatever vintage designer sweater was his latest target.

No, this was more of a half-delighted, half-curious “Oh my god!”, so Patrick didn’t feel any particular urgency to intervene when he called out, “What’s up?”

David didn’t answer. He stayed hunched over the counter in front of the laptop, never so much as glancing up from the screen. The furrow between his expressive eyebrows was familiar to Patrick too – David was in concentration mode, having clearly fallen down some sort of internet rabbit hole. It would probably be a while until he resurfaced.

Their customer began to walk over to the cash with their item and eyed David tentatively, like they weren’t entirely sure whether they should be bothering him. He did seem unusually intense in his focus, so Patrick couldn’t blame the poor woman for not being too eager to interrupt. But while the part of him that indulged in his husband’s idiosyncrasies found it endearing, the part of him that wanted to maintain professionalism (as well as stay in business, pay their mortgage, and generally maintain their current comfortable lifestyle – all of those pesky things involved in trying to be a functional, responsible adult) quickly shot the customer a polite smile and jumped in. “Why don’t I ring you up?”

Once the lingering echo of the bell over the door quieted a few minutes later and they were alone in the store again, Patrick reached out and gently elbowed his husband in the side. “Wow, not even a snide comment about a sale of the new bath salt scent you think is ‘too medicine-y’. What’s got you so enthralled?”

Apparently it was the choice of words that was enough to at least make David blink and tear his gaze away from the laptop for an eye roll. “Excuse me, _‘enthralled’_? Who are you, my mother?”

Patrick just shrugged – to be fair, they did have quite a few check-in calls with the elder Roses and sometimes Moira’s vocabulary was rather… memorable? – and moved behind his husband. David was leaning low enough over the counter that Patrick could stand behind him and comfortably drape himself over his back. Normally he wouldn’t be so cuddly in the store, but he was curious to see what this was all about. Resting his chin on the normally taller man’s shoulder, he glanced down at the screen with him. “But seriously though, what are you looking at? Please tell me it’s at least work-related.”

“It is!” David insisted, and did a very Vanna White hand wave towards the screen. 

The browser tab was open to pictures of roses. 

As in the flower, not their family. 

Patrick blinked. “Er... how is this work-related, exactly?”

“I’ll have you know I was googling the _store_.”

“Our store? This store? You _know_ we’re not a florist, right?” he asked, infusing his voice with faux concern.

“Mmm, yes, I am well aware of _precisely_ what type of store we are, thank you,” David said saccharinely, his tone at odds with his narrowed eyes. “I was googling to check for any recent press and the words got reordered in the search bar. How many times have I told you the trackpad on this laptop is faulty? I thought I had the cursor in the right spot and it moved _itself_ when I started typing and... whatever, that’s not the point. But _look!_ ”

David jabbed the screen, and Patrick read the title at the top of the page, in clean cursive script, above a picture of a pretty pink flower with a yellow centre. “The Apothecary Rose?”

“Yes! How perfect is that?”

“Perfect for... what?”

“Perfect for us!”

“Again, perfect for us to... what?”

David threw his head back in exasperation, dislodging his husband from his hold. “This rose is a perfect tie-in for the store! It could literally not be more on-brand! It literally _is_ the brand.”

Now it was Patrick’s turn for a fledgling furrow to appear on his brow. “So you want us to... what, sell bouquets of these or something? Or plant them outside?”

“Yes!”

“Sorry, yes to which?”

“Either! Both!”

“Right,” Patrick smiled, recognizing the enthusiasm of a burgeoning idea in his husband’s mind – one that was a bit general at the moment but was sure to become very specific. “Give me a little more to go on here David, what exactly are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking that this is a beautiful flower. This says the Apothecary Rose is one of the oldest varieties of roses – meaning it’s _timeless._ And apparently very fragrant. Can you just imagine having some of these in cast iron urns on either side of the front door? When the weather is warm we can prop the door open and the wind would blow the scent inside… Oooh, it’s too perfect.” David closed his eyes, lost in his vision, inhaling deeply. That expression was one very familiar to Patrick, except most of the time he only saw it when they were in close proximity to pizza. 

“I didn’t think you were so into roses. I remember your reaction when I mentioned getting you a bouquet for our first Valentine’s Day – if I recall correctly, you threatened to take the stems and jam them into my car seat so every time I drove I'd get a painful reminder of how clichéd red roses were.”

“Okay, so my reaction _may_ have been a bit dramatic–” (Patrick had to stifle a grin here) “–but in my defense, red roses are incredibly incorrect. They’re basically not even trying. But these aren’t modern roses, they’re a different type altogether. They’re more like cabbage roses, with rounder blooms that look sort of like peonies? Much prettier and more classic. Not to mention, not horribly overdone.” 

Patrick stopped trying to suppress his smile, which he could never help in the face of one of David’s ‘This-is-Why-What-I-Like-is-Right’ rants. “Ah, I see. So they’re the correct type of roses?”

“Yes, very much so,” he nodded repeatedly. “I mean, you _have_ seen our store logo, right?”

“I believe I have seen a glimpse of it once or twice, yes.”

“So? What do you think? It couldn’t be too hard to get a shrub or two or whatever and put them outside the doors.”

Patrick frowned slightly and looked towards their front door. The logistical part of his brain began to engage right away. “I mean, it sounds like a nice idea but I'm not sure how feasible it is? The store faces north, I’m not sure there’d be enough direct sunlight throughout the day. Or if they would survive the winter? Not to mention I'd worry about what sort of message we’re sending if we’re placing thorny, pointy plants in our customer’s way as they try to come in.” (A somewhat prickly proprietor was probably already enough.)

“Okay, well, then what about on the side of the store? We have a ‘rose’ garden right there,” David pointed out, complete with sarcastic air quotes. “These would definitely be an upgrade to whatever is going on in the Moira’s Rose’s Garden right now.”

Patrick suddenly began to understand some of the enthusiasm David was expressing about these roses, despite having displayed no great interest in any sort of plant life before. He hated the mishmash of flowers that the garden on the side of their store had turned into lately. Whoever had been tasked with its upkeep seemingly belonged to the school of thought that flowers would magically appear by simply tossing some random green things in the dirt each spring and letting nature take its course, with absolutely no watering, weeding, or any sort of care whatsoever. Or at least, the lack of effort and pride of ownership is what bothered Patrick – inevitably half the plants would shrivel away and the surviving half would be overrun with weeds, so he had taken to weeding and watering at times when the store was slow. David’s issue was more aesthetically-based, and he ranted about it at least twice a week (“Who in their right mind would plant salmon-coloured begonias, Patrick? And with red and pink geraniums! Seriously, is there some colour-blind landscaper lurking around town who’s made it their sole mission in life to lower our property value?”).

The pair had approached Town Council about it, hoping to remind them about the importance of town beautification – or rather, Patrick had asked first and been brushed aside by Ronnie, after which David had gone to try and work his magic – but neither had any luck in getting the little patch of dirt any greater attention.

“What if we call your mom and ask her to use her pull with Council?” Patrick suggested. “You’d think the garden’s namesake would be invested in having it kept up and looking...”

“...like an _actual_ garden and not some overgrown patch of leafy sadness?”

“I was going to say something like ‘looking decent’, but essentially, yeah.”

“Mom was never too keen on being associated with the garden in the first place, to be honest,” David sighed, not entirely convinced by the idea. “I’m sure she’s repressed it from her memory by now – she's _very_ good at forgetting things she finds distasteful. ...though, now that I think about it, back when we were at the unveiling my dad said he’d look into getting some roses for the garden! I wonder why he never did?”

“I dunno David, maybe things like _running a business_ took priority,” Patrick mused, stressing a few key words in his sentence. Leaning over, he dropped a quick kiss on David’s shoulder before pushing off the counter and heading back over to the sales floor to work. 

“Mmm, I’m sorry, who is the one with the creative vision here?” David called after him. “This has to do with beautifying our space, and therefore is business-related!”

“Okay David...”

@}-,-’-. ~ .-,-’-{@

David had to admit that Patrick’s suggestion to call his parents about the garden was… well, not necessarily a _good_ one, but more like a decent-enough starting point. He was sure they hadn’t spared a single thought to the garden bed beside his store that had very quickly become one of the banes of his existence (together with moths and business women in sneakers, but at least he didn’t have to see either of those every day when he came into work). 

He gave it a few hours to account for the difference in time zones before picking up his cell phone. He figured his father was at least slightly more likely to maintain a coherent conversation on the topic, so he hit his contact number. “Hi Dad.”

“Son! Good to hear from you!” came Johnny’s voice, pleasantly surprised. 

The sound of his voice over the speaker prompted Patrick to come into the back room to join in (it was still soon enough post-wedding that he was trying to be an eager and exemplary son-in-law whenever he saw the opportunity). “Hi Mr. Rose!” he called out from behind David, pulling the curtain shut behind him.

“Oh, is that Stevie? I thought she was in Manitoba right now.”

“That would be my husband!” David cried out exasperatedly.

“Ah, sorry boys. It’s, er, a bad connection.”

“Right, I’m sure you were driving through a tunnel or something,” muttered David. “Listen, we wanted to ask you something–”

 _“David_ wanted to ask you something,” Patrick interjected. 

“Oh hush, don’t pretend this wouldn’t impact you too.”

“What can I help you boys with?” Johnny asked curiously, but before they could reply another voice piped up across the line. “Oh, is that Alexis? And Stevie?”

“Moira, David and Patrick are on the phone!” Johnny called out to his wife. “Do you want to talk with them?”

“Dammit, I was hoping Mom would be on set today,” David whispered to Patrick. This would probably derail things – their last five family check-in calls had all devolved into Sunrise Bay reminiscences and spoilers, and he didn’t have the patience for those types of tangents right now. 

“Oh, how fortuitous!” Moira exclaimed, her voice getting louder as she made her way closer to Johnny and his phone. “We have a late call time today – Nicole and I have a cliffside scene at sunset, Vivian is going to be in a parasailing race against her doppelganger – so your father and I decided to lunch together! And now we have this delectable little apéritif of a conversation with which to whet our appetites.”

“Yes, well, glad we sound, um, appetizing to you,” David sighed, trying to rein things in. “Listen, Dad, quick question for you. I was looking into some roses online–”

“Let me stop you right there, son,” the elder Rose interrupted. “Nothing good can come from going down that path. The last time my second cousin and I were in touch, a bottle of Macallan Red Ribbon Scotch was thrown through my office window–”

“And Richard Gere still hasn’t forgiven you for his favourite tie ending up aflame!” Moira added with glee. 

“Ugh, no, not Roses, roses! Like, the actual things! The flowers, not our family!”

“Ohhh. Sorry. And... er, what?” Johnny stuttered. “Don’t tell me you’re expanding into the floral market, David. The margins are–”

“Ohhhh my god, can you please let me _finish?”_ David exclaimed, feeling his stress rise to uncomfortable levels already. Beside him Patrick ran a soothing hand down his back, which should have helped to calm him, but the all-too-amused grin in his face sort of negated the effect. His husband was enjoying this too much. 

“Sorry, sorry! Yes, go ahead, I'm listening.”

Taking a deep breath, David closed his eyes and tried to remember the original point of this call. “I wanted to ask you about the Moira’s Rose’s Garden. Remember back at the dedication, you told us you’d be getting roses for it? I’ve found a type of rose I want to plant that would be perfect for the store, so I wanted to ask you what happened there.”

“Wellllll, to be honest it all got a bit complicated,” admitted Johnny. “I did start looking into getting a few bushes, but there were some... obstacles." 

“Let me guess, another complicated order form?”

“Noooo,” his father dragged out. “Mostly it was the fact that Moira insisted on picking them herself.”

“Of course I did!” she cried. “When a pastoral plot of land bears your name it is only natural that you should have say over what inhabits it!”

“Right, well, there were just so many varieties that it became overwhelming for her–”

“That is not true, John! I knew _exactly_ what I wanted – black and white roses, obviously,” Moira protested. ( _"Obviously,"_ David muttered.) “It's not _my_ fault that black roses do not actually exist! Anything else would have been a pitiable facsimile, and then it simply became too tedious to flounder through myriad varieties when my level of enthusiasm had dropped so _precipitously.”_

“Well, until you decided getting your own rose named after you would be a better idea,” Johnny added.

“It would have been a felicitous tribute, John! If Ingrid Bergman and Judy Garland have roses named after them, should not Moira Rose have one as well? It would be only fitting for my own appellation to grace a variety!”

“Did your mother just compare herself to Judy Garland?” whispered Patrick, eyes widening. David thought it was adorable how he could still be surprised at his mother’s self-confidence, so he just patted his husband’s hand.

“That wasn’t exactly a better option dear,” Johnny interjected. “You weren’t willing to wait the years it would take to breed a viable new variety. Not to mention we didn’t have thousands of dollars for the naming rights!”

“Perhaps this is a notion we can revisit now that we’re more financially solvent, hmm?”

“I can look into it I suppose,” Johnny sighed, but then in a more musing tone added, “Maybe it would be ready in time for our 50th wedding anniversary...”

“Ew! Oh no John, please erase that scheme from your mind – that's the gold anniversary, I think something auric would be a much more appropriate gift, don’t you? No need to break with tradition!”

“Mmmm, okay, I didn’t call to help you plan anniversary presents!” David cut in, sure that his parents had completely forgotten he was even on the line with them. “I _called_ to ask about the garden beside the store. I want to put some roses in there, but every time we ask Ronnie about making changes to it she says something about it being protected under a Council order.”

“Ah, I believe that would be my fault dear,” Moira said. “After your father and I left town I insisted that I retain control over that winsome little Eden. After all, if it is my titular space that means it comes with impeccably high standards that simply _must_ be maintained!”

David and Patrick looked over at each other in surprise, and David’s face quickly twisted into a grimace. “Then why does it look like a drunken toddler just wandered into a garden centre and randomly grabbed whatever basic flowers they thought looked like candy?”

“I have no idea, David – I’m no horticulturist! I delegated that responsibility to your father.”

“Er....” stammered Johnny, and David could practically hear him start to sweat over the phone. “...And I delegated it to Roland.”

“What?” “What!” came two synchronized shrieks from Rose mère et fils.

 _"Why_ would you do that?” gasped David, while Moira wailed, “Yes John, what on earth were you thinking? Roland’s idea of vegetation is the green marshmallows in Jocelyn’s ambrosia salaaad!”

“Well, it’s not like I'm there in person to make any of those decisions!” Johnny tried to defend himself. “Besides, Roland offered.”

“But we’ve been offering–” David protested, before Patrick chimed in, “You mean, _I’ve_ been offering?” 

“– _Patrick’s_ been offering to take over the maintenance! Why wouldn’t Council let us take it over?” wondered David, his annoyance pitching his voice. 

“Mea culpa, my dears!” Moira cooed. “I’m afraid I was rather insistent when I departed Council that only I – and by 'I’, I mean myself or my personally appointed surrogate – would be the sole arbiter of whomsoever could tend to my little parcel.”

“And Ronnie couldn’t just tell us that?” David grumbled, throwing his hands into the air. 

“Hmm, of course not,” muttered Patrick. “She likes to see us squirm.”

“You mean she likes to see _you_ squirm,” David pointed out, and then pouted. “I would’ve thought she’d give _me_ a heads up.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Rose, do you think you could give her and Roland a call and tell them that you’re okay with us taking over the garden’s maintenance?” Patrick asked, quickly pivoting into problem-solving mode.

“Oooh, honey, you know what would probably help? If we consulted with Ronnie’s florist friend on improving the space. I’m sure that’d help you get into her good graces,” David suggested, rubbing a hand up and down his husband’s arm excitedly. 

“I’m starting to think that nothing could get me into her good graces,” Patrick sighed. “But I guess it can‘t hurt.”

“Sounds like a plan, boys,” Johnny agreed. “I’ll give Council a call. But you do know that the space isn’t conducive to roses, right?”

David abruptly stopped his enthusiastic Patrick petting. _“...What_? What do you mean?”

“Well, that was another complication that I ran into. That whole garden bed was just a box built up on top of concrete, so there was only so much soil to work with. When I first tried to get some placeholder roses put in, the landscaper told me it wasn’t deep enough to accommodate them.”

“And you couldn’t have mentioned that 10 minutes ago?!” David shouted. It became Patrick’s turn to soothingly rub his arm.

“Well, your mother distracted me with all that talk of naming roses again–”

“Ah yes! Now, what do you think John – the ‘Moira Rose’ rose, or is that too repetitive?” she jumped back into the fray. “Maybe simply _the_ ‘Moira Rose’. Or is that too ambiguous? Perhaps–”

David could recognize the beginnings of one of his mother’s self-involved spiels, so he acted quickly. “Okay, that’s great! Thanks-so-much-for-not-helping, byyyyyyeeeee....” David drew out, before aggravatedly pounding the End Call button and tossing his phone down. “Dammit!”

“Don’t worry, David,” Patrick tried to calm him, now rubbing wide circles on his back. “Even if we can’t put those roses beside the store, at least we can still improve the garden overall. That’ll be a fun project for you.”

“I guess...” he frowned, frustrated. The opportunity for a perfect Rose Apothecary rose immersive experience was rapidly wilting away.

“Though I understand your disappointment,” Patrick added with a grin. “It would’ve been nice to put a ‘David Rose’ rose there.”

He froze. “Excuse me?”

“Your dad seems like he’s really upped his gift-giving game, doesn’t he? Getting your mom a rose named after her is a great idea, I might start looking into this whole naming rights thing... Wouldn’t your very own rose make a perfect present for our fourth anniversary?”

“Oh god,” David cringed, scrunching up his face. “That is definitely not necessary. But, er, why fourth? Don’t tell me you already have our first three planned out. Actually, nevermind, that wouldn’t surprise me at all.” He was pretty sure Patrick had some sort of spreadsheet locked away full of ideas for birthday, Christmas, and anniversary gifts – and he would bet solid money that it contained a column ranking the ideas in order of how much it would make David protest. 

Patrick shrugged with a coy smile. “I’m not going to spoil the surprise for you. But the fourth wedding anniversary gift is ‘fruit or flowers’,” he informed his husband, showing him the website he’d pulled up on his phone when Johnny and Moira had started mentioning anniversaries. “Wouldn’t that make for just such a _rosy day?”_

“Not if I divorce you first...”

@}-,-’-. ~ .-,-’-{@

Patrick thought David’s whim for the store rose had faded away – the Moira’s Rose’s Garden had been spruced up with a colour palette more complementary of sand and stone, and without any mention of roses – but a few weeks later it became apparent that it had only gone into hibernation. As he walked through the living room of their cottage and gave a fond glance at David, sprawled out on the couch with the laptop, he noticed the screen was once again full of garden images.

“Uh oh,” he murmured, leaning over the back of the couch to take a closer look. “You haven’t put this Apothecary Rose idea to bed, have you?”

“I’m going to choose to believe that you are _not_ making a pun about garden beds, because that would not be an ideal start to this conversation,” David said loftily, before sitting up straight and pulling Patrick down beside him.

“Oh, this is going to be a whole conversation?”

“More like... a proposal?”

Patrick gave his husband a fond glance. “I don’t think you need to propose to the person you’re already married to. But if you really wanted to, I won’t stop you.”

“You’re hilarious,” David snorted, trying to hide the smile creeping out of the corners of his mouth. “Fine, a proposition then!”

“I don’t think you can proposition your husband either.”

Ah, there was the smile Patrick was striving for, now fully breaking out across David’s lips as he asked, with playful sarcasm, “Has my husband had enough yet?”

“Yup, sorry, sorry!”

“Okay, listen,” David said, suddenly turning more serious. “I’ve been looking into this, and I was thinking – if we can’t plant roses at the store, why not here?”

“Here?” Patrick repeated, and immediately began to think. 

The landscaping around the cottage was an area they had both agreed was low priority on their wishlist of renovations and upgrades after moving in. Patrick’s argument was that the existing gardens were perfectly fine and the money would be better spent inside; David’s argument was that if he would be spending most of his time inside and not looking at the spots he deemed decidedly _not_ fine outside, he too would much rather put those funds towards something more important. What that important thing would be was an area they had not agreed on (“A built-in espresso machine is not more important than upgrading the water lines, David! Do you want your daily espresso to come with traces of lead?”), but at least they were on the same page regarding the landscaping. 

Or at least, they had been.

Patrick knew the fact that an idea was still percolating in David’s brain despite an earlier setback meant it was more important than a throwaway thought. Sometimes David could be a bit of a magpie and be temporarily entranced by a shiny object catching his attention, but he also knew that sometimes that shiny object could be a diamond in the rough. That this involved nature and dirt and even the potential for close contact with bugs – all things David avoided at all costs – told Patrick that this was a bit more than a passing fancy. 

So, he leaned closer into David’s side with a smile. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I’m thinking we have all the space we would need in our backyard for a rose garden. Can you just imagine two long rows of roses bracketing the length of the lawn? I’ve already checked the ideal conditions for the Apothecary Rose, and we’ve got more than enough light and planting depth and maybe not the ideal soil pH because, ew, I'm not going to go out there and play in the dirt right now, but I'm assuming it will be fine because the gardening forums are all saying that roses are very adaptable and can be grown almost anywhere.”

“Roses are definitely very adaptable,” Patrick said fondly, before teasingly adding, “But you know, if you’re not willing to go out and get your hands dirty, just how do you think these are going to get planted?”

“Well, obviously I may need _some_ help with this whole thing,” David admitted, in a tone of voice that very much said he knew his admission was no surprise. “You know I'm not exactly the best at physical labour. But I was hoping that if I can do the planning portion, you could help with the dirty part?”

“Oh, you know I can help with the dirty part,” Patrick winked. 

“Um, not exactly where I was going with that – but I'm suddenly getting all sorts of landscaper fantasies coming to mind?” David mused, raising a brow. “So we should definitely put a pin in that, please and thank you?”

“Sure, David. You know any opportunity I get to break out the jorts and get all hot and sweaty outside–”

“Okay, stop trying to distract me!” David cried. “I'll have you know I was actually trying to persuade you with logic and reason and _numbers._ Look!”

He switched windows on the laptop, and suddenly Patrick was the one distracted. “Is that... is that a spreadsheet?”

“Yup, yes, it is. Now do you see how seriously I'm taking this?”

“Wow, David,” Patrick breathed, impressed and surprised and perhaps even a little turned on (that was a thought to revisit later, maybe). “Do you want to walk me through it?”

“I was _going_ to, if somebody wasn’t trying to be all cute and fluster me,” David pouted.

“Sorry, sorry,” Patrick apologized, and dropped a quick kiss onto David’s shoulder. “That was before I knew you had a spreadsheet. You have my undivided attention now, I promise.”

David huffed, but turned back to the screen with a smile and pointed. “So. Here at the top I’ve sourced some nurseries that carry the Apothecary Rose and that will deliver to us. I measured the length of the yard and the recommended distance between plans to calculate the number I think we’ll need to fill the space, and here’s where that number is fed into the different website pricings for a total. And obviously it’s not cheap, but on these websites here I’ve flagged the ones that will give bulk discount savings because we’d be buying so many.”

“Wow, David. I thought I was supposed to be the numbers guy in this relationship? I didn’t think Excel expertise could be transferred through osmosis somehow.” Patrick knew they had begun to pick up little habits and skills from each other over their time together (he realized when talking with a customer last week that he had become more of a hand-talker, for instance), but formulas with multiple nested functions was not something he had ever expected David to manifest. 

“I _may_ have learned a few things from you trying to explain all our store spreadsheets to me,” David shrugged, but with a shimmy that said he was pleased. “Don’t let it go to your head, it’s all still incredibly boring.”

“Understood,” he smiled, but it waned a bit when he pointed to a particular cell and noted, “And I don’t want to rain on your parade here, but you’re right – that's not exactly cheap.”

“I know, and that’s where the rest of this can help.” David scrolled down the sheet, where he had a list of familiar names in a column. “I’ve been calling up some of our vendors to make some inquiries, and I think the garden can eventually end up paying for itself. So when I was looking into the Apothecary Rose, the websites say this variety produces rosehips – and that made me think of Sharon and that amazing rosehip jam she makes.”

“Don’t tell me you want to start making jam as a side-hustle?” Patrick winced, picturing their kitchen covered in jars and fruity goo. He was still finding pasta sauce stains in random places a month after David’s attempt to make a marinara. 

“Oh my gosh, _imagine?"_ David blanched, probably thinking of the same thing and shaking his head quickly. “No, it just got me looking into all the different products that can be made from roses. The hips can be used for jam, the hips and leaves can be used in tea, the petals can be used to make rosewater or even just dried for potpourri...”

“So you’re basically saying every part of the rose can be used for something? Like a buffalo.”

“Ew gross, please don’t make me start associating this with some hulking, smelly behemoth!” David protested, before continuing excitedly. “Anyway, Sharon was saying her own garden only had enough space for so many bushes, so it got me thinking. I called and asked if, _hypothetically,_ she knew of somebody who had excess rosehips whether she’d be able to use them and up her jam production and she said yes. So then I called Glenda and asked her if she could use rose petals in her perfumes and she said yes, and then I called Mr. Hockley and asked if he could use the leaves in his teas, and _he_ said yes... Anyway, these numbers here are my projections of what we could earn from selling ingredients from our garden based on the prices of everybody’s current suppliers. And then these numbers down here are my estimates for price points for all the excess products we could provide the store directly with like, basically zero effort – some bouquets, some packaged dried petals...”

“Wow, David,” Patrick repeated, but with an even more awed tone than before. “This is _very_ impressive.”

“Impressive enough for you to be on board?” David asked hopefully, before narrowing his eyes. “Because if not, I'm totally prepared to call Alexis and have her yell at you for how this is too good of an on-brand multi-product platform tie-in to pass up.”

“No, no, the fiscal responsibility argument is solid enough, I think. Not to mention the opportunity to strengthen our vendor relationships,” Patrick mused, already starting a mental to-do list in his head. This would probably mean having to add some new clauses into some of their vendor contracts… 

“That’s good. Because it’ll pretty much end up paying for itself in a few years!”

Patrick’s mental cataloguing paused. “A few years? Just how long are we talking here, David?”

David shrugged. “I’m not entirely sure? I mean, it’ll take all the bushes a while to grow. These sites will only deliver bare roots, meaning they’re going to basically be all twiggy. Once they start growing the hips and flowers might be minimal in the first few years, but they’ll get there.” He flipped open a browser tab on his screen and gestured to the pictures on an article. “I’ve found my inspiration and already started a mood board, so I’m sure it will take time to have the overall aesthetic match Martha’s.”

“Is that... Martha Stewart?”

“Yes, in her rose garden in the Hamptons. It was _stunning._ We had a summer house down the boulevard, and sometimes if the breeze was blowing in the right direction we could smell all the blooms in our backyard.”

Skimming over the start of the article, Patrick’s eyes widened. “David, it says here it took her _16 years_ to get her garden to this point!”

“So?” David shrugged again. “It’s not like we’re going anywhere. We have the time.”

And taking in his husband’s contented smile, Patrick found he couldn't argue with that. 

@}-,-’-. ~ .-,-’-{@

A few weeks later fall had officially rolled around, the leaves on the trees were slowly starting to shift colours, and a few dozen bare root roses had been delivered to the Rose-Brewer cottage. Patrick had spent the prior weekend preparing the garden beds and enriching the soil while David had focused on hydration (of himself and Patrick, not of the garden. It had taken the entire summer, but he maintained that his sangria recipe was finally on par with Robert De Niro’s).

Today was the day all the plants would go into the ground and Patrick had insisted on an early start to beat the heat of the day, as apparently the summer temperatures hadn’t yet got the memo that the seasons had changed. Patrick had also insisted that David get up with him and help – though he was well aware it would be in a mostly supervisory capacity. ("And mostly because you’re wearing your tighter pair of shorts,” David had grumbled.)

“Okay David, I’ve spaced all the bushes a couple feet apart. I think it looks pretty good. You sure this is the final placement you want before I start digging?”

“Hold on, hold on! Let me do a final check!” David cried, putting his coffee down beside where he sat on their back deck. He dashed over to the closest plants and started checking the labels. As he worked his way down the rows he ended up swapping a few before stepping back and declaring, “There!”

“Am I missing something? I thought those were all the same type of rose. Does the order really matter?” Patrick frowned. 

“Well, I _maaaay_ have added a few additional plants to my order,” David admitted, before pausing and raising an imperious brow. “Wait, are you telling me that you didn’t notice it on the invoice?” He couldn’t help the victorious grin that spread across his face. Patrick had drilled it into his head within the first few weeks of the Apothecary’s opening that every single invoice, no matter how small, had to be checked and double-checked (they didn’t want a repeat of the Tea Tree Oil Incident, which thankfully never happened again). It was a rare occurrence, but whenever a detail, no matter how small, slipped past Patrick’s attention on an invoice David got much too gleeful.

“You were the one who signed for the delivery yesterday!” Patrick pointed out, scowling somewhat at his oversight. “Pardon me for trusting my husband. I assumed, with all the research you put into this, that everything was correct.”

“It is correct,” David grinned. “I’m just pleased that my little surprise wasn’t ruined.”

Patrick blinked. “What surprise?”

“I decided the Apothecary Roses needed a few companions.” David leaned down to pull one of the plastic identifier tags off from around a stem and handed it to his husband. “Here.”

 _“The St. Patrick rose?”_ he read aloud, and then paused to let out a little huff. “Aw, honey. That’s really sweet of you.” He looked down at the tag again and continued to read, _"St. Patrick loves the heat and develops its best colour and form in hot weather. Its flowers open slowly to reveal satiny-yellow petals brushed in chartreuse green during the warm weather and a more golden hue during cooler temperatures."_

He looked up in surprise. “I thought you didn’t like yellow roses?”

David paused – still somehow surprised how his husband always managed to file away even the most innocuous of David’s comments – before shrugging. “Well, I thought a few select yellow blooms here and there would complement the yellow centres of the Apothecary roses,” he said, trying for casualness, as well as trying to avoid Patrick’s heart-eyes at his gesture. Sometimes it was still too hard to see that kind of sincerity and appreciation firsthand – it could feel a bit like staring directly at the sun. Naturally, he had to distract from that genuine human emotion. “Keep reading.”

_"Great form for the cutting garden with long, strong, straight stems each leading up to a single, large and magnificent bloom. Slow-opening, but abundant flowers last all season, showing amazing stamina."_

“It’s like they know you,” David grinned.

“Well, except for the straight part,” Patrick smirked. “David, did you order these just so you could make a stamina joke?”

“Oh, your stamina is no joke,” he said lasciviously. “And no, I'll have you know that I was just trying to be _nice._ I thought it would be nice if the garden represented the both of us.”

Damn, there came the heart-eyes again. Patrick’s face was altogether too fond as he quickly reached over to pull David down for a thorough kiss. “That _is_ very nice, thank you David.”

“Hmm, would you say that it’s a gesture a _nice person_ would do?” David asked pointedly, wrapping his arms around Patrick’s shoulders.

“I would say it’s a nice gesture by a _good_ person,” Patrick responded, easily falling into their teasing routine.

“That’s not nice.”

“I’m about to start digging dozens of holes for a garden _you_ insisted on – you don’t think that’s nice?”

“I would say it’s a nice gesture,” David parroted with a smirk.

“Well, can I get to it then?” Patrick asked with a wide smile, before reaching up to tip the brim of his crooked baseball cap like an old-fashioned gentleman. Damn it, he knew exactly what he was doing there, forcing David to bite his tongue at his chosen hat-wearing angle.

Instead, the other man rolled his eyes. “By all means,” David said, sweeping his arms out in a ‘proceed’ gesture, before retreating back to the shade of their patio and his precious cup of coffee. 

The morning sped by quickly and quietly, with the occasional word of encouragement from David and grunt of exertion from Patrick (which was often followed by a low grunt – of appreciation – from David too). 

As the sun began to move directly overhead, Patrick was able to fill the hole around the very last root. Throwing his shovel down onto the grass, he called out, “There we go!”

“Good job, honey!” David cooed, tearing his eyes away from where he was scrolling on his phone. Looking over the rows of roses, he nodded his approval. “Looks great! ...Er, well, maybe not _great,_ since everything is looking a little sparse right now, but great for what it is at this point, I guess? In that, it _will_ look great?”

“It will look great,” Patrick confirmed, coming over to plant a sweaty kiss on David’s forehead (“Ew!” he protested, but they both knew he didn’t really mind). “It’s not a Martha-level garden just yet, but this is a good start. We’ll get these established and next spring it’s going to look gorgeous.”

“So are we done out here then? Lunch time?” David asked eagerly, before a better idea came to mind. “Or maybe we should get you in the shower, you’ve worked up a bit of a sheen.”

“Actually, there’s one more thing, David,” Patrick said, pulling away. “We’re not done just yet.”

“We’re not?” David cocked a brow, suddenly suspicious.

“Just give me a sec to go get the finishing touch!” Patrick jogged over to the garden shed beside their deck, throwing open the doors and leaning deep inside for something.

Oh no. David knew that trolling tone. He heaved a sigh. “It’s just that, I don’t recall approving any finishing touches?”

“I’m making an executive decision,” Patrick called back over his shoulder. “Besides, I have the full support of Council behind me.”

“Um, _excuse me?"_

“It turns out that Roland was really disappointed when we took over maintenance of Moira’s Rose’s Garden from him, so I had to make a… concession,” Patrick explained, still moving tools in the shed out of his way as he searched for something.

“A concession? I really hope you mean, like, hot dogs and popcorn.”

“Not exactly…”

“Oh my god.”

With some effort (enough to make David notice his straining arms - which, despite his confusion, he could never not appreciate), Patrick lugged out what looked like a hunk of granite. “Ronnie sourced this for us, I think it’ll be the perfect garden marker.”

David leapt to his feet, waving his hands around. “Ugh, we have to put a fugly rock in our garden? Why would Roland even care about that?”

“Oh no, that wasn’t actually the concession,” Patrick shook his head, before bending over to pick up the stone. “So, where do you want this?”

“I don’t! That colour scheme doesn’t match this garden’s aesthetic at all!” David protested, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Okay, well, how about here for now.” Patrick dropped the marker, and then, with his eyes honed in on David’s face, he turned it around.

David didn’t quite know what to expect, but he did know he was being watched for a reaction. He knew, knew with every fibre of his being that Patrick was anticipating some sort of facial gymnastics, and he didn’t want to give in. He kept his eyes on Patrick’s, defiantly, trying to wait him out.

 _Trying_ being the operative word.

The corner of Patrick’s mouth turned up ever so slightly. He knew David had trouble with patience, as well as with not knowing things. It was just a matter of time. 

David tried to use his peripheral vision to take in the rock, but all he could tell from that was that it seemed to be engraved. So it was what, a plaque? He couldn’t actually tell what it said.

It wasn’t fair. It was clearly torture. 

It didn’t take long for David to break.

His eyes flickered over quickly, long enough to prompt a strange sense of familiarity in him. His eyes widened as he gave up all pretense and read the engraving.

“NO. Nope. Nope, no, no way! This is unacceptable!” he shrieked, prompting a few birds to scatter from a nearby tree. 

“But David, it’s such an honour to have something in this town named after you!” Patrick pointed out, now not even trying to fight the grin stretching across his face.

“I refuse to have my garden desecrated by this… this _monstrosity!"_

“It’s really not _that_ bad,” Patrick argued, infuriatingly calm for a homeowner who was about to have such an atrocious chunk of garbage ruining the lovely space he had spent the past few hours toiling over. “Besides, like I said, Roland was surprisingly upset at our takeover of the Apothecary garden. He actually called it a mutiny. This was the only way to calm him down.”

“And a good way to troll me, don’t think I know that!” David snapped, starting to feel a bit ill. 

“I mean, I’m not going to deny it,” Patrick shrugged with an unrepentant air. “But honestly, I thought this was a small price to pay for us to achieve full creative control over the Apothecary site.”

“But at what cost?”

“So I guess I shouldn’t mention that, come spring when these all start blooming, we have to host Roland for an official dedication ceremony?” Patrick added, his voice entirely too amused.

David gasped, bringing both hands up to his face in distress. _"What?!"_

 _"That’s_ the concession. The man loves a ribbon-cutting ceremony, apparently,” Patrick explained, as if this was a truly normal thing to say. “He’s so excited to break out his mayoral sash and podium.”

“It’s an abuse of mayoral authority, is what it is...” David muttered, before throwing his hands in the air and stomping off towards the house to the sound of Patrick’s chuckles. He didn’t spare a second glance back at where their new garden marker proudly proclaimed:

**The  
David’s  
Rose’s  
Garden  
7283 **

@}-,-’-. ~ .-,-’-{@

**Author's Note:**

> Hope the image works! As you can see, graphic design is my passion.
> 
> This all stemmed (Ted: “Ha, nice!”) from a very real internet rabbit hole I fell down while planning my own rose('s) garden. Once I saw there was such a thing as an [Apothecary Rose](https://davesgarden.com/guides/pf/go/116/#b) – official name ‘ _Rosa gallica officinalis_ ’ and hence the title of this fic – I knew I’d be ordering it. (And for reference, here is the [St. Patrick rose.](https://www.weeksroses.com/product/st-patrick/roses))
> 
> And yes, before you ask, I will definitely be ordering a custom engraved “Moira’s Rose’s Garden” stone too – that’s not even a question.
> 
> Anyway, it was fun to write this. Hope you had just as much fun – or more – reading it, please let me know in the comments!


End file.
